


Fake It 'Til You Make It

by jendavis



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 07 Spoilers, The Hilltop (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: Paul's just trying to keep everything from going to hell.  Daryl's already been there.(It's a Daryl Recovers at Hilltop story, but it's mostly about Jesus.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a one-day caffeine binge and without referencing back to any of the Hilltop eps for reference. Headcanon has no patience for research and this will be Jossed by Sunday anyway.
> 
> 4/16/18 edit: wow there were a lot of typos in here; hopefully I've finally caught all of them!

Paul's not on watch, so he doesn't know what the noise is all about until he arrives at the wall at two in the morning to find Maggie, wrapped up in a blanket from a bed in the infirmary that she's _supposed_ to be resting in, shaming Gregory into opening the gates.

"...we went through _hell_ on account of you, and you are _not_ going to turn your back on him now."

At first, all he sees is a man with long blonde hair, but then he moves the flashlight he's carrying and Paul gets a glimpse of an angry, frustrated scowl, marred by scarring. It's one of the saviors- fuck, no, it's _Dwight_ , Negan's right-hand man- and he's shifting, trying not to stumble under the weight of the sack he's propping up on his other side.

Paul shoots a glance towards the trees; if they've attracted any walkers or followers, they're being quiet about it for the moment.

When he looks down again, he sees the arm propped up over Dwight's shoulder, and the shadows sort themselves out into the shape of a human.

It's got to be Daryl, he realizes. They haven't heard anything from the Saviors camp in three or four days, but there'd been some gloating at their last visit about how close he's come to breaking.  They hadn't stayed long.

And they hadn't heard Maggie, afterwards. Hadn't heard how much hope she'd managed to find in the word _close_.

And now, it seems, Daryl's broken _out_ instead. Or been broken out. Semantics.

If the Saviors are at the door, well, they've already heard that punchline, Negan _owns_ that door. If this is an attack, they're coming in. At least if they open the gate this once, it _might_ still be left standing come morning. Besides. Any Saviors out there would still have to clear the edge of the trees and make it up the hill, first.

Dwight's not much to look at, but a hostage is better than nothing.

He can't hear whatever Gregory's saying from up here, but he can hear the patronization in his tone; he's not quite finished taking the high road, which at least gives Paul something to work with.

He takes the stairs down two at a time, but doesn't run once he's hit the ground. Gregory's the type to mistake urgency for foolish panic, when it suits him, and Maggie looks like she could use someone calm on her side.

"It's clear for now," he tells Gregory.  "Just the one guy, no sign of anyone else as far as the trees. The longer he's exposed and Maggie's shouting-" he doesn't look in her direction, because apologizing to her is going to have to _wait_ \- "the better the odds of someone hearing. If we're quick about it, well..." He stops short of making an actual call, here, because he doesn't need Gregory fighting _him_ too.

But this is the job. Saving Gregory's face so he doesn't tantrum Hilltop into the ground.

Gregory, as expected, makes a show of being relieved that someone who isn't Maggie is speaking. And then of thinking about it for a moment, with a glance around the gathered crowd because he's at least got enough sense to _pretend_ like he's aware other people exist, once in a while. "All right," he raises a hand magnanimously, even bowing a little bit at Maggie. "Let them in, but be quick about it. And if we have to dispatch anyone, let's not make a mess."

\---

Maggie's got her blanket over Daryl's shoulders before the gate's closed behind her, and Jason and Lincoln come forward to help the two of them make shuffle way up towards the mansion.

For now, it's up to Paul to stand at the ready while Gregory makes a show of attempting to grill Dwight... who is, unexpectedly, shrugging off his vest as he heading back to the gate.

"Jesus, man," Dwight stops, holding it out. "Give this to him. I'm keepin' the crossbow, though, and you can tell him that."

Paul doesn't have the chance to do more than take the vest before Gregory steps closer.

"It's Dwight, right? What's your game, here?"

Dwight's head shoots up, his shoulders square, and he turns to sneer back at him.

"Uh. There isn't one. But I have to go."

"And report back to Negan?"

"Fuck you." The thing about the Saviors is, well, Dwight might've been one of the _slightly_ less monstrous ones, but none of them have never made any attempts to play along with Gregory's bullshit. The guy might be stepping out of line, but hopefully he's not looking to go _further_. "I did right by your boy, there. You do right by me, and _all_ of your people here, or you try and stop me. See what happens."

He then rolls his eyes back to Paul, dismissing Gregory entirely. "Look. I'm gone. Ain't sayin' shit to nobody. Got someone covering the trail, but I gotta go meet her if we're gonna get clear."

 _Holy shit. You're running,_  Paul realizes, at the exact same moment that he realizes that it doesn't matter. It's not like they could grant him any sort of safe harbor, not Negan's _right hand_. And it's not like he'd be particularly useful in any other capacity, apparent change of heart or not.

And he'll be dead within days, either way.

It's not Paul's place to speak, and there's going to be hell to pay in a minute, but Dwight's not looking at anyone else.

"We never saw you. And Daryl ain't even here."

Gregory is so furious that his face is completely blank, and his eyes don't leave Paul's as he nods and orders Lincoln and Chua to open the gate. But Dwight nods at him, on his way out, and flashes something that might've turned into a grin, once.

"Jesus," Gregory says, voice calm. "It seems all the excitement has worn everyone out but you. Go relieve Thomas until shift change. And meet me in my office at eight."

\---

The first few times he swings by the infirmary, Daryl's asleep. The third time, he seems to be faking it, and the fourth, too.

The fifth time, he hears Maggie's voice talking before he even reaches the door, so he keeps on heading down the hallway.

\---

He's out on a run with Jason, swinging by the Kingdom's dead drop on the way, when Daryl's released from the infirmary. When he gets back, Maggie won't- or, honestly, maybe just can't- tell him where, exactly, he's disappeared to, just that he's still at Hilltop. _Around_ , somewhere, but she won't say more. It's disappointing, but he's still just an ally, here. He's not Maggie's people the way Daryl is.

"He's going to be okay," she tells him, sad and frustrated, but a little happier at the same time, maybe. Though he doesn't know for sure. "Right now, I need you to tell me what you heard from Ezekiel's people. I already read that note from Morgan you gave me, but Gregory's playing the 'pregnant ladies can't worry about politics' crap again."

Gregory is _such_ an idiot, Paul thinks, for the three hundredth time, but maybe his shutting her out will work out to Hilltop's advantage in the long run. Happy people don't rise up against despots, after all.

"All right," he says, sitting down on the chair so she can take the couch. "So, yeah. I didn't mention it to Gregory, so keep it close, but Ezekiel's people've started giving the Saviors tainted meat. Too soon to tell if it's going to be of any use," he admits, Ezekiel being as eccentric as he is, "but if it works..."

"That could be something." She shifts, sitting back a bit more, though her focus is all on him. "Tell me more."

\---

Daryl's going to be fine.

At first, Paul only believes it because Maggie does. But even after two weeks have gone by, with no hint of Negan knowing they're harboring Daryl, she's started saying it with enough intensity, lately, that he's fairly certain she's just trying to convince herself.

But they've all seen it, when they've seen him at all: Daryl walking around like he's still waiting for the bat to fall.

He's been crashing out in the room that had, once upon a time, been the lady of the house's servants' quarters. The doorways are discreet enough, in the ridiculous opulence of Barrington House, that Paul's mostly forgotten about them, even though they've figured into a few of their Worst Case Scenario plans.

Paul's walking up the hall to report in to Gregory, who's _magnanimously_  forgiven him his stunt with Dwight after the successful supply run, when the slip door next to the dumbwaiter opens and Daryl steps out, just a few feet away.

"Daryl," he says in greeting.

"Uh, Jesus, hey."

The problem- one of them- with that nickname, is that it's sometimes hard to tell whether or not someone's not actually just startled. Especially when they're frozen, eyes darting around at anything that isn't you.

"How's it going?" And, fuck, he probably shouldn't be staring right now, but it's hard not to. Daryl's actually looking better- he'd been all blood and bruises, the last few times he's seen him. And he's got his vest on, which seems like it might be a step in the right direction, though there's no telling what his long sleeves are covering, apart from the shrug that's all Paul gets by way of answer.

Maybe the cut on his mouth is worse than it looks now. Maybe Paul's just being optimistic. "I was just heading over to report in," he says, nodding down the hall, as if they bumped into each other like this every day. "You need anything?"

Daryl actually looks up at him, but there's a flash of relief when his eyes dart towards the stairs. "Nah."

"All right," Paul grins, nodding, and starts off again down the hall. "Catch ya around, then."

He makes it about three steps before he hears Daryl moving down the stairs.

After that, he's free, just for a minute, to start picking apart every awkward, horrible moment of the exchange, to catch his breath before knocking on the door and becoming the person Gregory expects him to be again.

Gregory wants to talk about the crops in the southern field, and the paint job on the water tower, as if he doesn't know- and hell, maybe he doesn't- that Daryl's living in the walls, here, and that's a situation that's going to need sorting, sooner rather than later. As if the shit going down in Alexandria has no chance of spreading their way, as if Gregory's got the ability to define reality for the rest of them.

And Paul plays along, and tries to figure out how he's going to do the same thing with everyone else, down on the chow line tonight.

\---

Everyone is frustrated, that night. But it's just the usual simmering anger.  Nothing's boiling over, and as long as it doesn't do _that_ for a few more months, this whole shit show can keep running.

\---

It's a week or so later that Maggie comes to his trailer, tired, haggard, and worried, asking to talk to him.

"It's about Daryl," she says. "I think I've been fucking up. And I need you to tell me if I need to pull my head out of my ass."

He laughs, then winces, pulling out the chair for her and sitting on the bed. "What's up?"

"Well, we've got him living in the walls like some sort of prisoner."

"He's been cutting out into the woods every day this week," Paul points out. He'd only caught sight of him limping out once, but the watch logs confirm at least three other trips. "And he's been taking some of Lincoln's overnights on the north side."

"I know," she says. "I mean, he can come and go as he pleases, but. This thing with Negan. It's not over yet, I don't think. And I think he's planning on leaving."

"Did he say anything?"

"Came in all covered in grease the other night. Wouldn't say anything about it, not that he does. But I heard from Jeannie that he's been working on one of the bikes out in the garage. So... I went down there to check it out, and yeah. Daryl's working on a bike."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Yeah. Said not to worry about it. And then we kind of got into it, and. I kinda lost it." She sighs, massaging her shoulder with her hand as she stretches her neck. "Kind of... wound up telling him that if he went running back to Alexandria, and Negan found out, he'd rain all sorts of hell down on everyone."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Well..." The nice thing about Maggie is, he can just flat out ask her. "What'll you do if he goes?"

"Probably go chase after him, make sure he gets there okay, tear him a new one... and probably just land us both in a shitty situation if I try it like that. And, you know, _really_ send him the message that I don't trust him for shit, not that I haven't already been doing so."

"Fair point. What'll you do if he stays?"

"I don't know. I can't make him. I mean, I could probably guilt him into it, and it's a shitty thing to do, but it beats sitting on my ass wondering just where it is along the way that he's going to get himself killed, and if he's going to bring anyone else down with him." She wrinkles her nose in disgust, shoulders slumped. "Fuck, I hate _this_ almost as much as I want _pancakes_."

"Pancakes?"

"Yeah. Pancakes."

\---

He thinks, _yeah_ , he can do this.

All he needs to do is head up to the watch post, hand the guy some coffee like it's no big deal- like he hadn't traded Maggie a bottle of maple syrup for a stale jar of Folgers- and tell him, _Look, you might not see it, but Maggie's better when you're around. Gregory's not going to last another three months, with the way he's running the show. If we're going to be able to have a chance in hell of existing once he goes down, we're going to need her to step in. And for that, for her to even be able to, much less want to, it would help her out a lot if she had a familiar face in the mix._

As long as he doesn't mention anything about the stunningly low odds of Daryl surviving the trip back to Alexandria with the shape he's in, or how miserable Maggie's pretending not to be- there's no need to pile any _more_ guilt into the situation, the two of them are probably both doing fine in that department on their own- he'll be fine.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing."

He knows Daryl's caught the lie even before the distrust sets fully into his face.

"Look," he continues, as if this is why he'd come up here. "I'm the one who got you all into this mess. Dragged you into Negan's crosshairs. This is me, trying to make up for it."

"Would've happened anyway," Daryl grumbles, after a minute. "Uh. Thanks for the coffee."

Maybe not all hope is lost, here. He can salvage something, at least.

"No problem," he says, turning away because if he keeps it casual, and avoids catching sight of anything that might cross Daryl's face, he'll still be able to salvage something, here. "Thank Maggie, next time you see her."

Back on the ground, he walks along to the eastern watchtower where Devon's got watch. He doesn't need to check in with him, it's just going to be small talk.

But it's really just for show. In case anyone's watching.

\---

Things between Daryl and Maggie have evened out a bit, not that he's asking about it or anyone's talking about it, apart from a brief thanks from Maggie a few days later. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that after the raid on Alexandria, they've both gotten it into their heads that Hilltop's going to be next.

Daryl still keeps his head down when he walks, but he's started showing up for the town hall meetings, though he still isn't one for talking.  From what Paul can tell, watching Maggie interact with him, it's apparently verging on normal. His limp's getting better now, and his face is healing up. He's even added a few bike and car parts to the non-essentials list for the supply runs. He _still_ doesn't stick around at mealtimes, though. Just grabs his food and heads back to the trailer he's taken over, back by the garage.

That's all Paul really gets the chance to notice, though, because between Gregory and the run out to the Kingdom and scouting out the situation in Alexandria- it's still too hot for direct contact, there- he's been at a dead run for the better part of two weeks. And with Kendra and Gloria coming back and reporting that Negan's getting ready to move camp, things are just about to get worse.

"But they're heading _east_ ," Gregory shakes his head. "That's _away_ from us."

"True," Paul nods, quickly, before Gloria, understandably furious, can jump in. "But we've seen it before. Every time they move, they send someone to get more supplies for the trip." And these are the worst. Negan never comes around- these runs are beneath him- but the Saviors can't content themselves with roadside meets.  They have to come rummage through everything themselves.

"Fine. We'll double the guard. If they're coming, they'll check the house first." Gregory says, "The false floor, they haven't found yet, and we've moved the prime caches to the garage. We can't draw any attention to those."

"Fine," Gloria says, with a glance at Paul that tells him they're going to be having words about this later.

At least _she'd_ warned him. By nightfall, Phil, Jason, Chua, and half a dozen others all get their chance to pick his brain and chew him out in turn. The fact that they're right- they don't have the people to muster any sort of resistance, if Gregory's not going to step up his game, they're going to trample right through everything, and if anything goes _wrong_ \- it doesn't help.

He's exhausted by the time he finally gets back to his trailer. But he can't sleep for shit.

It's been a long time since he's had to sneak in, but he's not on the roster, and he's too tired to come up with an explanation for anyone's idle questions, and honestly, there's a angry, frustrated, _pissed off_ part of him that's sated by breaking into the weapons cache.

His nerves don't start catching up to him until he's outside Daryl's door, trying to figure out if he should knock, or leave a note, or just abandon this whole endeavor entirely. But the decision's not his; the door swings open.

There's a knife, but it's not in his face, and it's slipped back into Daryl's pocket smoothly.

"What's wrong?"

Daryl's scowling, and its not unusual, but he's looking at him, head on, for the first time since he'd been in Alexandria, maybe, demanding one of the cows.

Right. He's already seen the crossbow. It's a reasonable assumption to make.

"Ah. Look. The Saviors, when they get here, they're going to come in, looking in all sorts of places we don't want them looking. And I know Maggie's probably already telling you to make yourself scarce, but... you know the garage?"

"The weapons cache." Daryl nods, glancing down at the crossbow.

"Yeah. The water tower, you know that platform underneath?"

Daryl shakes his head.

"It's small, you'd have to, like, sprawl, but there's a little room there, and the planks give a little cover, and it's got line of sight."

Daryl's biting his lip. "You want me to fight?"

Paul holds out the crossbow. "I'm asking you if you'd mind keeping an eye on the place if shit goes sideways."

"Fuck yeah," Daryl grins, nodding, then looks up at him suspiciously. "Thought the word was that this was SOP, nothing to worry about."

"That's the word. When'd that ever stop anyone?"

\---

Two days later, the Saviors arrive.

It goes almost exactly as he'd expected. It even goes _well_ , up to a point. Right up until the Saviors are leaving, truck loaded with loot but no shots fired, and it all goes to hell.

They'd been so worried about the Saviors that everything else had fallen off the radar for _months_.

Paul doesn't know if they'd been trying to make a play on Negan's people, or if they'd been in the area and seen an opportunity, or what.

But the moment the gates open, the _Wolves_ are at the door, and then they're coming through it, and there's no time for thinking.

All he has is a knife in his boot, and he does what he can. He takes down one, and another's on him already. There's no time to draw any of them away from the others; everyone's scattering anyhow. By the time he's managed to disarm his second attacker- a blond kid with a too-wide grin- the kid's out of bullets anyway, and there's screaming coming from the fields. He can't see who's being chased, and he's not going to make it to them anyhow.

He'd never fired a gun, before everything had gone to hell. Hadn't even needed to pick one up for the first month or so, not until he and Erick had been heading out of Indiana. It had taken him a week, and enough bullets that the thought of them makes him want to _cry_ , to even hit a goddamned trashcan.

But he'd gotten the hang of it eventually.

A few months later, he'd run out of bullets. Erick, and his wife, and everyone else they'd found had been overrun, and he'd been too far away to do anything but watch.

It had felt exactly like this, and-

-he needs to focus. There's a big guy with a beard, the W on his forehead still bloody, barreling into him, knocking him down, and-

-shit, what'd he do with the knife-

-he clocks the guy with the butt of the pistol, enough to distract him, not enough to get him _off_ of him but he takes a breath, manages to find leverage enough to shove sideways and roll out from under him. He gets just clear enough, as the guy's getting up, to set up for an attack when he sees a gun coming up in his periphery, _shit_ , so he dives down again, rolling towards him, sweeping his leg out and kicking, toppling them at the knee. It's a woman; she hisses as she goes down, fires a shot but it misses, and the big guy's laughing, stalking towards him with his knife held, flat of the blade to his elbow; he's bringing his arm across his body, reaching to strike, but a dodge and a sidestep, a turn and a kick that lands _almost_ perfectly sends him sprawling forward.

He doesn't get up, but two others are coming at him from either side. On the left is a Savior that'd been rifling through his shelves less than an hour ago; on his right is a gap-toothed skinny guy laughing over the barrel of his shotgun.

The shot goes misses him, though, as he juts back, surprise widening his eyes just before they squeeze shut as he falls. There's an arrow shaft buried in his throat, so Paul turns back to the Savior, whose gritting his teeth as he lurches towards him more awkwardly, arm tight against his side. Maybe he'd been hit by the shot going wide, maybe Paul'd missed something. But the advantage is Paul's, now, and he gets in close, wrenches the man's good arm up sharply enough that he drops the knife; Paul twists, elbowing him in the side while launching himself off of him, spinning as he lands, then swinging a kick back. 

\---

By the time he catches his breath, most of the fighting's moved off towards the gate. Someone's tried setting the wall itself on fire, but it looks like it's being doused already.

His hands are shaking as he retrieves the knife he'd dropped, but he sets about taking care of the heads, dimly aware of the sound of something whooshing past, not too far from his head.

By the time he gets back to the kid, there's already an arrow bolt sticking out of his eye.

It's gruesome.

But it's over with, now.

\---

Everyone's on edge after that. That many Saviors being dead, there's no way there won't be repercussions. But they're retreating, dazed, and they still have their truck, and they help move the Savior dead onto the back of it, Paul _thinks_ he might've managed to talk two of their survivors into reporting back that they'd been attacked on their way back to camp, rather than inside.

It's well past midnight before they've counted their own losses. Eight, including Jason, Alyshia, and Moses. Fourteen more with injuries; Kendra was the worst off, two bullet holes and a gash in her back, but she'd gotten up to the doctors in time. Probably.

There's no sleeping after that. Most everyone heads in, looking for sleep, but the wood of the gate's been keeping him standing for the past half hour, at least, and there are still enough stragglers out here who'll see if he starts losing his shit.

The movement in his peripheral is so slow that for an instant, he thinks they've might've missed a walker, but he's careful to move his eyes before anything else, just in case.

Once he's been spotted, Daryl moves a bit more easily. The crossbow's over his shoulder; in his left hand he's got three gory bolts. "Jesus?"

"Daryl, hey."

He takes a breath, knocks his head back against the wall. And now he's laughing, and he doesn't know why. It's embarrassing. It's stupid.

Daryl's setting his gear down, and easing back down along the wall next to him, reaching into the pocket of his vest, but Paul's too busy trying to pull his shit together that he can't really track it.

Something hard taps against his knuckles. Daryl's got a flask, he's holding it up to him, and for a moment, it bubbles up again, this horrible urge to laugh, but he swallows it back down. Takes the flask, tips it back- it's whiskey, thank _god_ , the last thing he needs is the taste of _gin_ right now- and slides down next to him.

He hands it back, and wishes he had the energy to say something. Because he should, it feels like he should.

He's got nothing.

Daryl takes a pull off the flask, and sighs. For a few minutes, Paul just watches Gregory wandering around the yard, maybe looking for him, but not over here, and anyway, it seems like Gloria's calling him over for something. But they both look just about as lost as everyone, here.

Laughing. Paul's okay to get back with the laughing, now.

He takes another drink when Daryl passes it back, and lets the burn distract him.

If he's going to turn into a sobbing mess, he sure as hell ain't doin' it out here.

"Why d'you fight like that?"

Daryl's voice is rough, but even. Kind of calming, even if it is surprising. So it takes him a minute to come up with an answer.

_Because my older brother, Erick used to have this video, when we were kids. The Masked Avengers, this Kung Fu thing, and there was this guy... I didn't know it was a crush at the time. I just thought I wanted to be like him._

He'd said that to Mario, back in his dorm room, a lifetime ago now. He'd been stoned, but not enough to not be worried about saying it, even though he and Mario'd been fucking around on and off for a few months by that point. Mario'd been the talkative one.

Just because he's more talkative than Daryl, though, doesn't mean he's going to _go_ there.

"Because twelve year old nerds who take martial arts classes get their asses beat less often than nerds who don't."

Daryl huffs out a snort, but he nods. Paul's not certain, but he looks like he's smiling. Almost. Maybe.

Which has him wanting to smile back, though he knows he shouldn't. Now's just not the time for it.

\---

Gregory, at least, pulls his shit together enough to start coordinating the repairs to the wall and the house, and he makes a good speech at the funeral, but it's rough. And the cracks are showing.

Gregory'd had to ask him Jason's _name_ , fifteen minutes before they'd all gathered in the cemetery. Jason had been there, going on runs, fighting off walkers, going toe-to-toe with the Saviors for _months_ , and Gregory hadn't bothered learning it until now.

But he bites his tongue. He plays along. Even at the town hall the next night. He agrees with what he can, and massages what he can't, and it goes almost up until the end.

"We didn't even see them _coming_ ," Cutter mutters from his spot in the second row. It's a loud aside, one that could've been taken as just that and left there, except that on today of all days, Gregory decides that he's going to take an active interest in the words that come out of other peoples' mouths.

"Unfortunately, if certain people hadn't left their _posts_ during the inspection," Gregory says, letting the implication hang, because he's playing the whole 'too great a leader to call anyone out by name, but you know who you are' schtick, and fuck. Anything Paul says is going to draw the battle lines, and it's going to get uglier than he feels like dealing with.

Maggie doesn't have any issue with it, though. "Right," she says, her tone rife with disbelief. "You think the Saviors would've just been okay with that? People wandering off the line just to go look at some trees? Because you _know_ that's what they're thinking, they've got us so scared, we wouldn't even _worry_ about anything else."

"Well, did anybody even _try_?"

There are a few angry sighs around the room, but nobody answers, and Gregory shrugs. "Well, there you have it. I need all of us, working together, to take security at our gates and walls _seriously_."

"Gregory, I mean this will all due respect, but just what the _fuck_ do you think everyone's been _doing_ , here?" Maggie sits up, glaring at him. " _Everyone_ here takes shifts on the wall. And we know how it is, just like we know how it goes when we don't dance to the Saviors' tune. As long as everyone's agreed that that's how things run around here, and is doing their fair share, you don't get to blow that off."

"On the contrary, I'm taking it quite seriously. I merely fail to see how belaboring the point now is going to do any of us any good." Gregory smiles, then sits up to grin placatingly at the crowd. "Look. It's been a bad couple of days. We need to plan for more, but the best way forward is to go at it with even heads." He stands up, effectively putting an end to the official proceedings. "Let's all think on it tonight, and regroup tomorrow. As always, if you have any questions or concerns, you can feel free to stop by my office any time."

 _Thanks for that_ , Paul thinks, watching his next twenty-four hours spool out in front of him in a haze of frustrated, tired, traumatized, people as everyone gets up, in pairs and in groups, to leave. Already, he can hear the angry grumbling from the entryway.

Fuck it, he thinks. Maybe he should stop trying entirely. It wouldn't take much to just let everyone roll in and tear Gregory's little fiefdom apart. Maggie's already got enough respect, she's got everyone's ear. He should test the waters, talk to her about it. She might be up for it. She might not be, right now; she's due in less than two weeks, and regardless of what the reality is, there're enough people here who'll freak out either way.

Hell, maybe someone else'll step up anyway. But if he starts asking around, word will _get_ around, too fast for him to handle.

He waits in his seat until everyone else has left. And then he waits a while longer.

After an hour, the last of the stragglers- Claire, who he can't stand on the _best_ of days, and Chua- are gone, but just to be sure, he makes like he's heading for the kitchen, and then slips out the back.

Back here, the yard is narrow enough that there's more dirt than grass, but if he skirts along the wall and behind the water tower, he'll only have to clear two rows of trailers to get home.

As soon as he rounds the corner, though, he can see that there're half a dozen people waiting for him, huddled around the stoop. The angry shouts have given way to conversational tones, which is a good thing, but maybe it's the kind of good thing that he should let lie.

"I dunno," Claire grumbles. "Must be up in the house, sitting in Gregory's lap like the-"

"Claire, come on," Chua cuts her off, for which he's grateful, but then he keeps talking. "Like I said. He's probably up there, trying to figure out what the damage is. I'm sure he'll have answers whenever he gets here."

He ducks back around the corner and freezes, listening to hear if anyone had caught sight of him, irritated with himself for running, for not just meeting it head on.

Because this, this right here, around the corner, is what he's _for_ , here. He knows fuck all about farming, he's no good repairing things or making things. He's carved himself out this stupid fucking niche as, what, Gregory's diplomat? Errand boy apologist? And it's all going to _shit_ , sooner than he'd been thinking, and he doesn't know what play to make next, or really, if he even _should_.

He needs to keep moving; if the guards on shift in the towers haven't spotted him yet, they probably will soon, and if he moves now, maybe he can get out, head around and over, and take a stroll through the fields without anyone being able to call him out on running.

Or, he could just turn right and go ten feet, and take his chances.

There's no noise from inside, but he knocks anyway. After a moment, Daryl opens the door in his t-shirt and boxers.

"What's up?"

"So this is going to be awkward-" but not as awkward as glancing down's gonna make this- "and I get it, but can I hide out here for a minute?"

"Uh." Daryl frowns, but steps back, holding the door.

He's never been inside here, but the layout's the same as all the others. It's tidier than Paul's own is, despite the mess of hunting gear that's taken up most of the available surfaces, but that could just be the fact that he hasn't had months to build up a whole lot of clutter. Still, with the trailers sectioned off like this, there's not a whole lot of space. He has to edge past Daryl to make it around the cabinets.

"You want a beer, or something?"

"You have any?" He steps past, takes a seat at the table, mostly to get out of Daryl's way.

"Lincoln hooked me up." Daryl opens up the mini-fridge underneath the counter and snaps two cans out of the rings, passing one over before sitting down across from him.

The lights are still off in here, Paul realizes, cracking the seal of his. But if Daryl's fine with it, it's cool. And anyway, it'll keep the mob at bay.

The beer's gone a little flat, or maybe he's just misremembering how it used to be. But it's cold, and it's good.

If he keeps drinking Daryl's stash, it'll only be neighborly to replenish it, the next run out, if he can.

"So. Why're you hiding, Jesus?" Daryl asks, breaking his train of thought before it even leaves the station. There's not much light coming through the window, but he can hear the smirk plain as day. Or maybe he's just imagining it.

"Because Jesus might've started out as a funny nickname, but the expectations that come with it are a little... insane." _And you're the only person I've met who doesn't seem to need anything from me._

"This about the meeting? I overheard some shit."

"Yeah. You missed one hell of a time."

For a few minutes, they drink in silence.

"Why'd you throw in with him, anyway?"

"Gregory?"

"Uh-huh."

"Because the walls here are thirty feet high, and side jump-kicks and Bolo punches aren't, as it turns out, enough to survive by."

_And I was alone and starving and terrified, and he let me stay._

"Gregory, he'd already set himself up as Governor, or whatever-" he breaks off when Daryl's shoulders goes visibly rigid, but Daryl doesn't say anything, just drinks his beer.  "He's an idiot and a jackass, but I'm only alive because he made the call to open the gate. By the time I recovered, I'd heard enough crap around the infirmary that I'd started figuring out how I could make myself useful. Earn my keep. So... yeah. That's the story."

Daryl nods, going quiet for almost long enough that Paul's starting to spin out looking for something to say. But then he asks, "Earn your keep how?"

He snorts. "By talking people into shit they don't want to do, mostly." It's out before he can stop himself, and he raises his hands. "Just. Negotiating, I mean. I'm not-" he doesn't know if he should even say it; it makes everyone twitchy, even the ones who _haven't_ spent time as a hostage. And he can't see enough of his face to get a read on him. But Daryl hasn't said shit about it, and he's already survived worse than hearing the man's name.

"I'm not Negan, or anything. Just." He's losing the thread here. "Gregory, he's..."

"Gonna get everyone killed?"

He shakes his head. "More like... "

The thing is, though, Daryl's right. And shit, the lights are out, nobody else is listening in, here, and he doesn't see how telling Daryl any of this will actually bite him in the ass, and- fuck it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think he might. But it's not like we can just shove him over the wall and be done with him. We do that, then we're no better than him. And I don't like what that'll do to everyone when they realize it." It really sucks to listen to yourself talking, talking to someone like _Daryl_ \- and realize how fucking naïve you must sound. "I mean- not-"

Daryl's shaking his head, though, cutting him off. "Nah, man. I get it. Y'ain't wrong."

He doesn't know what to say to that.

It takes him a minute to think that maybe, that's okay.

\---

"All right, hopefully the coast's all clear." He stands up and stretches, once his beer's finished. "Thanks for everything, Daryl. I'll let you crash out."

"Yeah," Daryl straightens up, in his seat, nodding quickly as he passes. "See ya later, uh. Paul."

He manages to keep himself from grinning until he's back outside, but it's swallowed down again before he's rounded the corner.

There's nobody waiting out there to see it, anyway.

\---

Paul's slept for all of three hours, tops, before Chua is pounding at his door.

"Sorry, man, but we _need_ you on this. Claire's already off to the races, starting shit with Jess down kitchen, and Gregory's called a meeting for nine."

"All right, I'll be there in a bit. Ten minutes." That's enough time to get some water boiling for coffee. Maybe even swig some of it down, if he's lucky. "Just let me get changed."

Five minutes later, the door's rattling off its hinges.

"I'm going to fucking kill her, and then I'm going for Gregory," Jess says. "Can you _believe_ that shit last night-"

"I know, I know. _Five minutes,_ he says. The _sun's_ not even up yet. But.

Okay. He can deal with this. It's fine. He brushes he teeth, pulls his hair back, burns his mouth on the few sips of coffee he's managed to snag from his travel mug, and braces himself as he reaches for the door.

And swings it open before the second knock. "I _know_ , I'm- hey."

Daryl is looking at him like he's insane, which, _yeah_ , he supposes he'll grant him that.

"Hey," he says, shifting his crossbow over his shoulder and wiping his hand on his jeans. "I'm gonna go check the snares, 'n shit." Chewing on his cuticle for a second, he glances up at him, then scowls. "Been down by the chow line, they ain't linin' up to serve nothing but bitchy-ass bullshit for breakfast an' Maggie's already splittin' heads. So, uh. If you're lookin' for an excuse to bail for an hour'r so..."

He shouldn't.

It's not like Daryl actually needs his help.

And he should really go back Maggie up.

But the bullshit will still be here when he gets back. Maggie's got a better chance of sorting it all out than anyone here.

And, well? To hell with it all, at least for a while.

"Hang on a second," he says, ducking back inside. He's got another travel mug in here, somewhere, up in the cabinet.

Daryl's working that hangnail again when he steps outside, and looks confused, but he accepts the coffee, grumbling out an approximation of a thanks. Apart from that, as they're winding their way down to the gate, Daryl doesn't say anything more.

He's smirking, though, as they cut through the clearing below the chow line, and Paul?

He's thinking that it would probably be politic if he could make it outside without cracking up.

And he's also starting to think that he might just do it anyway.


End file.
